


Inktober 2019

by sylveondreams



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Inktober 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-15 01:37:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20858081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylveondreams/pseuds/sylveondreams
Summary: Inktober prompts can be foundhere.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Last year, my prompts list didn't seem to work out too well. I have a bit more time on my hands this year, so we'll see.........

Aziraphale slipped the gold ring from his finger, setting it down with a gentle clatter on the countertop. "I really do think, darling, that you could do this yourself. You made the dishes messy, and all that."

Crowley looked down at him from where he was seated on the counter, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "I _just_ did my nails, angel, and you know how important those are." He picked up the ring from next to him to roll it between his fingers. "And you ate the meal. You could miracle them, you know?"

"I know what you want, foul fiend," said Aziraphale, and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. Crowley's gaze immediately locked onto his exposed wrists. "I think you deserve a taste of your own, well, tart, I suppose."

"Poison?" It was Crowley's downfall that Aziraphale's smooth _wrists_ were a temptation for him. He licked his lips again, two points of a tongue grazing over them. "Hmm."

"Temptation." Aziraphale turned on the faucet and stuck a hand under to check the temperature. Crowley watched the hot water run steaming over his palm, the angel not even blinking at the heat.

"Temptation." Crowley squeezed the warm metal of the ring in his hand. "Aziraphale-"

"Put it on, dear," said Aziraphale, taking the sponge from the side of the sink and squeezing bubbly soap into it.

Crowley blinked at him.

"Please."

Crowley slid the ring onto his finger, spinning it around slowly. He watched Aziraphale's hands brush the sponge against a plate, and if the dried chocolate came off without any effort at all, that wasn't anyone's problem, was it? The dim light above the kitchen sink flickered and immediately thought better of it.

Aziraphale flicked a watery hand towards Crowley, and the ring suddenly fit his finger a hell of a lot better.

Crowley brushed a few beads of warm water from his jacket. "What was that for?"

"For you." Aziraphale smiled at him, and the sun setting outside sent a last burst of orange light through the clouds. "If you'd like."

"Hgk," said Crowley, eloquently, and turned a sunset shade of red. "'T's your ring, angel."

"Yours, if you'll take it."

"Are you proposing to me over dishes?"

"No," said Aziraphale, seeming to remember the plate in his hand. "I think it would look nice on you. And I don't need to." He busied himself with washing the suds from the plate.

Crowley made another sound that didn't manage to be words and looked at the ring on his finger. Aziraphale could be right on both of those counts, he supposed.


	2. Mindless

Sometimes, Hastur worked under Dagon. It wasn't the _worst_ fate, all things considered, but if Dagon was in a bad mood Hastur (and sometimes Ligur, if he was unlucky enough to be drafted as well) would find himself in Dagon's stacks for years and years, filing and filing and _filing_, and damn it, demons weren't the ones who were supposed to be getting tortured here. He'd missed half of the eighteenth century stuck in Dagon's stacks, trying not to turn ancient papers to dust in his fingers as he looked for the folders they went in.

It was every demon for themself in Dagon's stacks, he'd learned quickly, and even if he and Ligur were as close to friends as demons could get, all of that went away amongst the endless filing cabinets. Ligur would stuff himself between cabinets and let his body melt into the surroundings, and Hastur would have to do all of the filing by himself for a week or so before he found the other demon by accident.

This was a job for lesser demons, but they were all better at escaping Dagon by now, and Hastur had always had a lot of trouble avoiding Dagon's beady eyes, which could pick him out in the gloomiest, drippiest, most undermaintained part of Hell.

The year was 1942, and Hastur was locked in the stacks again with a daunting pile of papers dating back thousands of years. Dagon had said something about a creature loose amongst the cabinets, and that at some point it would probably get hungry and Hastur and Ligur should be finished by then, so _don't_ hide and shirk your responsibilities, you nasty chameleon, it can smell you.

Ligur, naturally, had melted into the shadows as soon as the clanking of a chain sounded on the other side of the heavy door, and Hastur had found himself staring in dismay at the pile of crumbling papers.

"Ligur?" he said hopelessly into the flickering darkness, to no response, sighed, and took the first invoice from the stack. Where did Dagon get all of these?

It was three days before Hastur saw Ligur again, and it took stepping heavily on a hidden foot to do it. A raspy voice swore, and Ligur was suddenly in the shadows next to him, pulling his foot out from under Hastur's. "Leave me alone, Hastur, I'll stop hanging around you if you trap me in here with you again and make me _file_."

"Didn't you listen to her?" asked Hastur. "He said there was something in here, and we should work fast."

Ligur sneered. "They're lying. Have you seen _anything_?"

"Not even you, you miserable scumbag. Are you having fun in your moldy corner?"

"No."

"I'm going to find it and drag it straight to you."

"Do you think it's a hellhound?"

They were quiet for a moment, pondering the possibility.

"Could be," said Hastur at last. "I wouldn't put it past Dagon to drop a hellhound in the depths of their catacombs."

"Or maybe it's a teeth snake." Ligur grinned. He liked teeth snakes. They had a lot of teeth, and used them.

Hastur grunted, finished with the conversation by now, and shoved a stack of papers on the other demon. "File these."

Ligur took them. "Don't see why I should be punished for _you_ not moving fast enough to escape Dagon."

"Not that bad when you get used to it."

"It is. It's bad. You hate it. You told me once that it was worse than that time Hamud trapped you in a cage to get eaten by birds."

"That was fun," said Hastur. It had not been fun. It had been very painful.

"You're lying."

"Let me know if you see a hellhound."

"Or a teeth snake."

"Don't tell me if it's a teeth snake. I don't care."

It was another three days before they saw each other again, and although they'd managed to shrink the pile of papers significantly, Hastur's stomach, not to mention Hastur himself, was grumbling.

"I'm sick of this," he said, by way of greeting.

"I knew you'd be," said Ligur, who'd actually filed papers in the meantime and hated himself for doing work.

"When I get out of here, I'm going to find the nastiest flesh flies and eat them."

"Yeah. Me too." They both laughed, once, and went right back to straight faces.

"Have you seen anything yet?"

"I think I saw some eyes in the darkness." Ligur shrugged. "I think."

Hastur thought back, trying to remember if he'd seen any eyes. "I saw an eye in the NOR section."

"Just one?"

"On the shelf."

"Gross." Ligur nodded in approval.

Almost as if it had been planned, the two demons finally saw the monster as they regrouped at the empty table near the chained door several days later.

Red eyes blinked at them from a toothy head as Ligur banged on the door.

"Did you finish the papers?" asked Dagon's muffled voice.

"Yes," growled Hastur, then said it again louder so Dagon could hear him through the door.

The creature's head, which was mostly mouth, dripped steaming spit. It took a step forward, its shoulders hunched as if it were ready to lunge.

On the other side of the door, there was a clanking of chains, and the heavy door cracked open. The demons scuttled through, and it boomed shut again just behind Hastur's coat.

"What the hell is that?" Ligur eyed the door warily.

"A stacks hound. Like it?" Dagon grinned a toothy grin.

"No," said Hastur.

"I made it myself."

"It sucks," said Ligur.

"You suck," said Hastur, and was shoved for it.

"I'm still working on it," said Dagon, ignoring their commentary. "Do you think it could use more teeth?"

"I think it could use less us."

Ligur nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Less us. Leave me alone."

"Move faster, then," said Dagon, and turned their back on Hastur and Ligur.

"Flesh flies?" asked Hastur, wanting to get as far from the stacks as he could.

"Yeah." Ligur grinned. "I'll kill for some flesh flies."


	3. Bait

Crowley sat back and looked triumphantly up at Aziraphale. "Look? See, a trap that won't kill it, and you can take it outside when it's been caught." He flicked the side of the box, and the lid flipped shut. "I don't know how this is the first time you've had a mouse in your shop in however long you've been open."

"Well, I was watching," said Aziraphale, "I thought, 'I absolutely do not want _any_ rats in here, or bugs, or anything,' quite sternly, you understand, so there weren't any, but I think I forgot to keep it up the other day and this young lady came in."

"The mouse?"

"Yes, and at _first_ I thought it was nice, because of her little nose and all, and she looked at me from inside the till when I opened it the other day and squeaked. But-" He waved his hand. "Droppings. You know. They're all very well and good when they're somewhere customers will see, but _on_ my books is unacceptable."

"Hm." Crowley propped the lid back up and increased the tasty smell of the lure inside with a thought. It would have been easier to deal with the mouse by snaking through the shop and swallowing her whole, but Aziraphale had noticed the rodent before he did. "Is that really all you called me for?"

"Well, yes," said Aziraphale. "Unless you'd like to stay for a glass?"


	4. Freeze

It smelled like smoke when Aziraphale got into the Bentley, swirls of ash accompanying him into the pristine car. He gingerly sat in his seat like he was preparing to bolt at any moment, his bag's handle clutched tightly in his hands.

"Don't stare at me like that," said Crowley, averting his eyes from Aziraphale's and turning the key in the ignition.* Aziraphale glanced away for a second, but his eyes drifted back to Crowley, who was trying to avoid seeing him at all.

"Really, angel, I just didn't want you to have to fill out all that paperwork. It's a pain." The car leapt into drive, and Aziraphale let go of his bag to grip the door for dear life.

"Well, thank you, dear," managed Aziraphale. It really wasn't the bombs, or the fact that Crowley often showed up when Aziraphale was in a bind, and it _definitely_ wasn't because there was somehow a smear of ash across Crowley's cheek that the angel suddenly found himself wanting to lean over and brush away. It was the books, it was the books, it was Crowley saving the books for Aziraphale without any possible excuse that rendered Aziraphale speechless. Because how could he not see it, now? And how could he not taste the sweet tang, the sin of the finished Twenties, that was a daring hope of defiance?

Aziraphale was in love with Crowley. He had been for a very long time, and he'd known it, and he'd known Crowley was too, but now, in the dark streets of London with the hooded streetlights of a blackout, something in him resettled itself so that its sleepless eyes would watch over Crowley, its flaming sword would burn to protect _him_, and Aziraphale didn't even consider trying to stop it.

"Angel," muttered Crowley, "angel, _please_ don't look at me like that."

"Crowley."

"Don't tell me."

Aziraphale's Principality settled itself quite comfortably on Crowley, folding its wings and hanging up its hat.**

"Thank you for saving my books, dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Crowley had not yet lost his car key, but the time would come soon. He would never find it again.
> 
> ** Metaphorically.


	5. Build

It could not be said that Crowley was good at carpentry. He'd last given it a try over eight hundred years ago, and before that there had been a thousand-year gap. Even if he'd been good at it then (he had not), he wouldn't have had the first idea of what to do with modern equipment for the process.

So he was cheating.

Aziraphale lounged in the shade, watching Crowley cheat on building the shed, and sipped a glass of wine that didn't seem to run out.

Crowley was busy sawing a two-by-four (and fastidiously ignoring the popping of metal as the tin roof that leaned against a nearby tree resized itself) when four heads appeared over the crest of the hill.

"Oh, visitors," said Aziraphale, and the shifting of the tin stopped short.

"Really," said Crowley through gritted teeth, vigorously sawing at the wood. It should not have been that hard to saw a two-inch-thick piece of wood in half.

Four children and a dog stopped by the fence, watching Crowley's struggle with fascination.

"Hello, Crowley and Mr. Fell," said Wensley finally, not quite managing to tear his eyes from the wood but waving at Aziraphale nonetheless.

"What kind of mischief have you sown today?" Crowley glanced over at them, and the saw finally went fully through the wood.

"We went fishing," said Pepper proudly. "And I caught three fish."

"Oh?"

Adam qualified, "And then threw them back."

"That's good to hear," said Aziraphale, taking a sip from what was now a glass of ice water. "Watch out, dear, that'll fall."

Crowley shifted where he'd put the wood and turned to lean against the shed. "I think you should go bother Mr. Tyler. You've left him alone this week, haven't you?"

"Really, Crowley," said Aziraphale.

Brian piped up. "Actually, we were wondering if we could see the snake."

"We're letting him nap," said Crowley. "He doesn't like company much."

"We _never_ get to see him."

"Maybe when Crowley's out." Aziraphale scooted his lawn chair so his feet were in the shade again. "He gets more easily stressed when the two of us are around the house."

"_Angel._" Crowley kicked at a box of nails on the ground. "You'd let ruffians touch him?"

The Them giggled. This was coming from Crowley, a known ruffian.

"_Do_ get back to your shed, love, you said you wanted to finish it by sunset."


	6. Husky

The best part of the Apocalypse, in Aziraphale's opinion, was that there was absolutely nothing stopping him and Crowley from sleeping in the same bed. (Apart from the several years where he'd still been too nervous to acknowledge this fact, but those were better ignored, after the fact.) And so there was nothing stopping Aziraphale from looking up from his book at some time in the late morning to see Crowley rubbing dreams from his eyes and saying "Good morning, angel," in a voice rough with sleep.

"Good morning, dear," Aziraphale would say in return, and close his book, and watch Crowley fondly as he burrowed his face back into his pillow, grumbling about the sunlight that was suddenly being allowed through newly drawn curtains.

Soon, Crowley would twist around again and snuggle into Aziraphale's side, and Aziraphale would put down his book and coax the sleepy demon into getting up for breakfast, which could take up to half an hour depending on the time Crowley actually woke up, on what time he'd gone to bed, and on whether he was declaring the sin of sloth today. Sometimes they wouldn't manage to get up at all and would stay in bed until dinner or even later.

A demon, perhaps, should not be good enough to merit an angel under the covers with him every night until he woke up and yawned with a sleepy forked tongue, but it was _Crowley_, of course, and he was always an exception.


	7. Enchanted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the way the footnotes are, the way this is formatted demands me put them at the end and I can't figure out how to make hyperlinked footnotes work.

As far as witches went, Anathema Device was nothing like people expected.1 She didn't cast spells, she didn't have a cat with a funny name, although she and Andromeda2 had been looking at old shelter cats in the area, and she didn't even have more than two nipples. Granted, she'd wave a pendulum around now and again and chant, and she had a collection of crystals, but the Them had grown largely tired with asking her about her witchiness after they learned she couldn't actually cast spells.

In another twist of expectation, it was Greasy Johnson, someone who hadn't met the Devices for at least a year after they moved in3, who learned first about the real magic in the Device household.

On a nice summer's day, Greasy Johnson liked to bike around Tadfield with his friends, not unlike the Them's usual summer plans.

On this particular nice summer's day, Greasy Johnson was biking near the pond, alone, and thinking that he might actually be interested in sitting next to it rather than biking around it, and looking at the fish that swam lazily around in the shady water.

When he drew to a stop by his favorite spot, kicking a rock into the bushes and letting his bike fall against a tree, Greasy found a woman sitting there, her hair drawn into a messy braid and her trousers hiked up around her knees so she could dangle her feet in the pond scum.

"Who are you?"

The woman looked around, pushing her broken glasses up her nose and squinting through them. "Andromeda. We've met, haven't we? Are you Greasy?"

"Yeah," said Greasy, and plopped down on the dirt next to her. He wouldn't usually sit next to an adult willingly, but she seemed different somehow. More like someone his age. Maybe it was that she called him Greasy.4 "Tyler's always talking about me."

Andromeda blinked once before the name registered. "Oh. Yes. He is. I heard you threw things at his house."

Greasy wrinkled his nose. He hadn't done that. "I didn't do that. My gang did. I was here."

"Oh," said Andromeda. "Well- I thought that was funny. He doesn't like my wife very much. Or me." She giggled and then tried to swallow the giggle. "'Serves him right,' said Anathema."

"Are you the witch?" asked Greasy.

"That's Anathema." Andromeda glanced up at the trees. "Although- Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes." Greasy was the best at keeping secrets. Nobody knew it, though. It was a secret.

"Look." Andromeda snapped her fingers, and fire appeared on her other, upturned hand, dancing all across her palm. "I just figured out how to do this yesterday."

Greasy stared at the fire.

"It's not hot," said Andromeda after a moment. "Do you want to touch it?"

Greasy stuck his hand out and carefully stuck his fingers in the flames, which lapped, warm, against his skin.

"How did you do that?"

Andromeda shrugged. "I don't know. I can just do it, now." She closed her fist, and the fire went out. "Don't tell Anathema, either."

"Okay." Greasy shifted. "Is it magic?"

Andromeda shrugged again. "I guess so."

"Cool."

1 As far as anything else went, as well.

2 née Newton Pulsifer, now Andromeda Device. "He is not what he says he is," indeed.

3 Witches keep to themselves.

4 Adults usually called him Gabriel, which didn't really fit him. Neither did Greasy, but at least he'd had some choice in that matter.


	8. Frail

Angels are not weak.

There is not a single angel in all of Heaven who couldn't lift a desk with one hand while searching for a misplaced book, or a hissing snake, underneath it. (There is only one angel, of course, who would do it for either of these reasons.)

On the other hand, (sometimes, quite startlingly, literally) Crowley has his days where his back acts up, or his knees, or his hands, or his head, aut cetera, and he can barely move, let alone lift a desk with one hand.

On those days, it's often all he can do to lie in bed and writhe and contemplate turning into a Pain Snake, (from experience: it gets worse when he's snakey) and Aziraphale frets and makes him tea. Out of principle, Crowley doesn't drink the angel's tea. (It could be poisoned!) Only when Aziraphale's not looking.

When it's not so bad, Crowley has a cane with a handle shaped like a snake. He hates it, he hates appearing _weak_ before the world, but somebody has to put mischief into the world, even if it means sacrificing his relief from pain for a second to whack somebody's ankles.

It's infuriating: Aziraphale doesn't even seem to mind that Crowley has only just told him about this even though the pain has pulsed for six thousand years. He keeps a spare cane at his shop, and he has plenty of chairs draped with dustcloths in the shop for Crowley to sit in, and there's even a bed in the upstairs apartment with a mattress designed for sufferers of chronic pain. And he tells Crowley he doesn't think he's weak for it at all, even if sometimes he can't walk or can't even pick up a pen, and Crowley _hates_ that.

Still, it's not like Aziraphale has a lift in the shop. If Crowley wants to go up to the bedroom, and he often does solely for this very reason, Aziraphale has to carry him. Then, he can press himself into his angel's chest and take his heat to soothe the pain, if only just a little bit. By which he means - it's humiliating. He secretly wishes the angel had a lift. _Shut up._ (Although the agency would be nice. It would probably end up breaking in his presence, though, just like the one in his building. It was all the demonic mishap.)

Once upon a time, a demon had stood on a wall, and the base of his left wing had pulsed with a low, throbbing pain, and it had been a new experience. But then, as for another six thousand years, the demon had pretended it didn't exist out of fear of appearing weak.

Aziraphale says that accepting help makes him strong, actually, and saying when he'd rather not go to the Ritz because it hurts too much is better than hurting and not enjoying it. It hampers gluttony, after all, and who is Crowley to disagree with _that_?


	9. Swing

There was a swing in the garden.

It hung from a tree that towered over the little house, and when it was windy out it swung calmly no matter the wind speed. There had been a swing on the same branch for over a hundred years, and although the materials it was made out of had been changed a hundred times it had, in essence, been the same swing for the whole time.

If swings could talk, this swing, just by merit of being so old, would have some stories to tell.

A hundred years ago, a child had tumbled off its seat and began to cry. His mother had emerged from the house and told off the swing to make the child giggle through his tears.

Seventy years ago, a young woman had waited in its seat past midnight, smoothing her skirt restlessly, and after two hours of waiting another young woman came through the gate and kissed her thoroughly, messing up her nicely curled hair and crumpling both of their skirts quite badly.

Fifty-two years ago, those same women came back, older, to live in the house vacated by the previous owners (who'd moved closer to their son). They grew flowers in the garden and ignored the whispers that the swing heard clearly from the street.

The swing served the two well for another fifty years, a sentimental relic of their courtship, and when they were married they took their wedding photos among the flowers and with the swing, and when they finally sold the house it was to (what looked like) two lovely gentlemen who went with them for lunch on a great many weekends to come.

The swing watched over their first kiss, too, this time in the middle of the day and involving more surprise than was strictly necessary for the circumstances. If it had been able to feel, the swing would have felt invisible feathers brush against its ropes.

In the years to come, it would see some interesting characters come to the house, and it would watch the gentlemen alternate yelling at and complimenting the ever more verdant garden, and it would watch them muse about another tree that still stood somewhere just outside of the world, if it really had been fate that they'd been by the same tree so long ago.

Of course, even if the swing had been sentient, it probably wouldn't have understood their conversation about a tree that was both real and not-real. There were a great many things it wouldn't have understood about those two, but all swings, no matter how sentient they are, understand love in all its forms.


	10. Pattern

Aziraphale punched a key on his keyboard heavily, and Crowley, curled around his neck in a lazy, scaly scarf, snorted with barely suppressed laughter.

"Crowley," said Aziraphale admonishingly.

"You can press the keys more gently," said Crowley, his voice hissed into Aziraphale's ear from a head comfortably resting on the angel's shoulder.

"If you were a real snake, I'd put you in the other room for laughing at me. I know how to use a computer, but I'm _used_ to the typewriter."

"If I were a real ssnake, I wouldn't be able to laugh at you, angel. Besides, you laughed at me for forgetting how to read Aramaic for five minutes last week. I know how to read. It's only fair." Crowley flicked his tongue towards Aziraphale, flooding his mouth with the angel's scent.

"Hmph." Aziraphale pressed another button, and the ancient computer made a triumphant jingle as the puzzle onscreen was solved. "I haven't been using a computer for as long as you read _current_ Aramaic works, dear."

"But do you ssee about the puzzles?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I applaud your ingenuity, but I don't see how digital sudoku puzzles count as sufficiently evil work." He put a hand up to Crowley, and the serpent twined himself around the angel's arm to look better into his eyes. "I would rather use paper, of course."

"That's the evil of it." Suddenly, Crowley was a sprawling biped again, leaning back against the computer desk, one of his legs over Aziraphale's shoulder and his body quite solidly in the angel's lap. "You remember that it's killing trees, but you like it better."

"Oh." Aziraphale's face fell. "I suppose you're right."

"Show me one of yours?" Crowley shifted so that Aziraphale could reach the keyboard with one hand.

"Ah, yes. One of my favorites," said Aziraphale, quickly accepting the change of subject. "Of course. I only had a little bit of a hand in it, but I enjoy it mightily. You'll have to type, dear, there's this lovely site where humans read and write fanfiction, and it's run by the same ones who use it..."


	11. Snow

Current scientific theory holds that the static snow between channels on your television is leftover radiation from the Big Bang.

Current scientific theory is wrong about a great many things (i.e. dinosaurs), not that it's the scientists' fault, but at least leftover radiation causing TV snow isn't very far from the truth. (Anathema's magazines claim that it's because of aliens trying to send coded messages to your subconscious. It would be difficult for this to be further from the truth.)

Apart from when the forces of Hell co-opt his television signal to send whispering messages to him in the static, Crowley enjoys watching the buzz of snow across the screen. (This is not to say that he doesn't watch television. He does. Reality TV is insufferable, and he loves it.) Fortunately, Warlock also appreciates the simple joy of watching the static, and his mother dismisses it as a strange quirk of a strange child. Crowley imagines it's because he can hear the whispering voices of the Devil in the buzz. (Like the subconscious messaging, it would be difficult for this to be farther from the truth.)

As far as Mr. Dowling is concerned, watching the static on a television is something that nannies just _do_, along with crocheting a black-and-red hat with little horns for Warlock. Mr. Dowling does not have any experience with a normal nanny, and nor should he. Diplomats are above that crap, he insists.

Diplomats are also above watching the TV snow. This is just as well, because if the gardener is in the house and the nanny isn't looking at the screen, the static forms into swirling galaxies. Subconscious messages, indeed.


	12. Dragon

Nanny licked her finger and turned the page, peering over at Warlock as she did it. The little Antichrist was having trouble keeping his eyes open, his duvet cozily tucked under his chin.

"Do you want me to stop reading, Warlock?"

"No," said Warlock sleepily. "'M not tired."

"Mm," said his nanny. She turned the book and pointed out the illustration to him, tapping a neat black fingernail on the dragon's scaly neck. "Look, he's going to kill the knight."

"No!" Warlock giggled, suddenly revitalized, and pulled his duvet over his mouth. "They're gonna be friends and destroy the kingdom _together_."

"Is the knight going to ride the dragon?"

"He's going in the castle-" Warlock stuck an arm out to point at the faraway castle in the picture- "so he can make them not 'spicious. Then he'll bring the dragon in and they'll _burn_ the castle down!" He bounced in his bed, giggling again.

Nanny raised an eyebrow. "Espionage?" The corners of her mouth crept up.

"Yeah, ess- aspen- yeah!" The duvet went over Warlock's head, and more giggling seeped out from under it. "Spinach!"

"I thought we were going to sleep, Warlock." Nanny closed the book and tried to banish the smile from her face.

"Tell me about them being friends, Nanny."

"Starting from here?"

"Yeahh."

Nanny dug deep for her demonic creativity, which wasn't particularly demonic after all was said and done. "The dragon stopped breathing fire, and the knight looked up at him, puzzled. 'Why aren't you trying to kill me anymore?' 'You're the youngest,' said the dragon. 'I could help you become king before your brothers.' The knight put his sword back in his sheath. He'd always wanted to rule the kingdom."


	13. Ash

Smoke and budding tears stung at Crowley's eyes. "Aziraphale!" he shouted into the flames. Fire flipped through the books all around him, the old first editions, the worn recipe books, the trashy paperbacks, devouring them faster than even Aziraphale could read. "Aziraphale!"

Outside, the sirens of fire trucks blared. The taste of ash danced across Crowley's tongue as he opened his mouth to shout again.

"Crowley."

"Hmn." Suddenly, Crowley was half in the burning bookshop and half in the realm of consciousness. Fingers rested gently on his arm on that plane. "'Ziraphale." He blinked and rolled over, dragging himself out of the dream.

"I'm here."

"I know," said Crowley, his heart pounding and the taste of ash still in his mouth. "What time's it?"

"Four. Do you want some water?"

Crowley sat up next to Aziraphale in the darkness, propping himself equally against the headboard and the angel's shoulder. He smacked his dry mouth. "Yeah."

With a snap of fingers, Aziraphale was holding a glass of water. Crowley took it and gulped it down thirstily, managing to spill a record none on himself.

"Nightmares again?"

"You woke me up, Aziraphale, I think you know."

Aziraphale sighed. "You were twitching and muttering my name. I still don't know how this is different from other discorporations, dear, did you have nightmares about those?"

"'S the fire." Crowley clenched the glass, which filled itself with water again. "Got the wrong idea in my head still." He put the glass to his lips and spilled half of it down his face as he drank.

"Ah." Aziraphale took the empty glass from him and set it on the bedside table. "I should have known."

Crowley wiped the water from his face onto Aziraphale's shoulder, kissed his cheek more messily than need be, and slithered back down into the covers. "I wasn't like this after the _insula_, that time in Brundisium. You wouldn't have."

"Less demons in the world then?"

"Just me."

"Imagine, I thought you set that building on fire yourself. Sleep well, darling."

"I would never," said Crowley, closed his eyes, and tried to banish the sting of smoke from his lingering memories.


	14. Overgrown

There was a fabulously rebellious pot of English Ivy belonging to Aziraphale in the sunroom. Crowley couldn't help but admire it, honestly, because whenever he told it not to grow so fast, or not to grow up the wall, it would redouble its efforts and he would find it sprawling the next morning across a vast swath of the sunroom floor.

Aziraphale would sit in his overgrown chair and laugh as Crowley grumbled, clearing the wooden floor of tiny ivy roots and gathering all of the tendrils up into his arms.

The sunrise on one particularly nice morning caught the fine curls at the ends of Aziraphale's hair, imitating his halo, and framed his wicked, _wicked_ soft smile. Crowley would almost swear that Aziraphale encouraged the ivy to do this, for some unknown reason. It was his own wiles.

"You've missed some, dear, it's behind the pot," the haloed figure pointed out, not lifting a finger to even move the ivy off of the chair he was sitting in.

"Aziraphale, angel," Crowley said. "Do you ask the ivy to do this so you can see me on my knees every morning? Because you could just ask." He peeled the vine from the arm of Aziraphale's chair, from which Aziraphale did not even lift his own arm.

"I would never ask them to do anything," said Aziraphale. "Assuming the plants can understand you is _your_ habit, not mine." He took a sip of his cocoa. "And if I were to ask them to do something, I would ask them to grow more flowers."

Privately, Crowley had been noticing an uptick in the number of flowers springing from his plants since he and Aziraphale had moved in together.

"Even the ones that don't flower?" Vines tumbled from Crowley's arms as he stood up, and he used a quick miracle to pile them back in his arms before they covered the rug again.

"I'm not going to force anyone to do anything," Aziraphale said primly, and waved his hand. The back door swung open.

Crowley raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. The compost pile outside, where the ivy was bound, wouldn't sprout new plants inside of it for fear of Aziraphale's quiet disapproval. Crowley hadn't had to raise his voice once at it.

"Go on, dear, I'd like to go out for breakfast."

"Brunch." The ivy in Crowley's arms shifted threateningly, and he stepped over Aziraphale's feet to make his way to the back door. "It could have been breakfast, if you'd told me _before_ I did the ivy for the morning."


	15. Legend

Crowley sprawled on the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, one leg over the back and his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were closed under his glasses, and his chest rose and fell slowly.

Aziraphale, at his desk, peered intently at a book he'd bound himself sometime in the thirteenth century, his fountain pen hovering over translation notes on a separate paper. It was late at night, and he was vaguely considering finishing up so that he could sit in his plush chair, read, and sneak glances at the sleeping demon.

Aziraphale pushed his glasses up his nose and resettled the pen in his hand. He'd last translated this over a century ago, and the translation could certainly use a new edition. Not many people were translating this work these days, and it was always nice to revisit an old project.

A quiet hiss came from the sofa as Crowley shifted in his sleep, one of his arms falling from his chest to hang off the sofa.

A few more sentences, and Aziraphale put down his pen, blowing on his paper to dry the ink. This was good enough work for the day.

As Aziraphale settled back in his comfy chair near Crowley, the demon shifted again. Dark hair spilled across his face and got in his mouth. Poor thing, thought Aziraphale, he'd wake up to wet hair stuck to his face. Aziraphale's fingers twitched, and the hair shifted back behind Crowley's ear. Crowley didn't deserve such a cruel fate as hair stuck in his mouth.


	16. Wild

The wind howled past the corners of the house and beat rain against the windows. Aziraphale watched the trees toss against the dark clouds. It was evening, and the storm had come before Crowley had.

As thunder crashed and lightning split the sky, the beams of two headlights cut through the rain over the top of the hill. A moment later, the Bentley appeared, its windshield wipers beating the rain away furiously.

Aziraphale stood up. In just the amount of time it would take to get from the car to the house, Crowley would be soaked. Aziraphale had left a towel by the fire to warm so he could pounce on Crowley with it as soon as he entered the house.

Outside the window, the car stopped in the driveway and its lights turned off. The door opened and Crowley emerged, covering his head with a magazine. As Crowley scuttled to the house, the wind beat at him, trying to snatch the magazine from his hands.

In the foyer, the front door banged open. The storm was louder for a moment before being cut off again by the door slamming shut.

Aziraphale bustled into the foyer and handed the towel to Crowley, who was dripping on the ground.

"I just did my hair," said Crowley, by way of greeting. He dropped the wet magazine on the rug and wrapped the warm towel around his shoulders. "You'd think the weather would let me have it dry for at least two hours."

"I _told_ you that it was cold, and it was going to rain, and you should stay in the house." Aziraphale let Crowley pass so that he could get into the living room with the fire. "But you _had_ to get it done today, didn't you?"

Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's face, but he was sure it sported a scowl. "I made an appointment and all." The demon snapped his fingers, and his hair sprang back into the shape it would have been before the rain hit it.

"It looks nice."

"Thanks." The fire crackled a little higher as Crowley sat down in front of it. "It's too cold. I should never have moved this far north."

"You say this every winter, love, and you've yet to look into a winter home for us." Aziraphale sank into the chair he'd been sitting in before, the tall lamp next to it clicking on out of habit. "You complain a great deal for someone who suffers through something they can change."

Crowley huffed and muttered something into the fire about the concept of vacation houses. (He'd helped make them popular in the modern era, but no one had got the joke.)


	17. Ornament

A chain hung around Crowley's neck, and when the collar of his shirt was lower, the old silver locket that hung on the chain tended to hang outside of his shirt.

Aziraphale had had his eyes on the locket for a long time, trying to figure out what was inside of it. Surely it was some kind of memento, for remembering a human who'd died long ago. Aziraphale kept things like that. He'd particularly liked the Victorian custom of keeping a lock of hair of someone who died, and he had a number of such objects in his back room.

But that didn't seem so much Crowley's thing. He didn't keep as many things around as Aziraphale did; instead, he'd visit the graves of his humans and pluck a feather from his wing to leave in the ground with them.

In that case, it could be anything, really. Maybe Crowley just liked the locket. (Although it didn't seem his style.) He fidgeted with it sometimes when he was nervous, polishing the silver with his thumb and wearing at the engraved design. (Aziraphale had never seen it close enough to make out what, exactly, the design _was_.) Maybe it was solely for that purpose.

A chain hung around Crowley's neck, and when the collar of his shirt was lower, the old silver locket that hung on the chain tended to hang outside of his shirt.

He'd had the locket for around two hundred years by now, and the plants engraved on the front would have been much less clear if it weren't for his insistent belief that they would remain visible no matter how much his thumb rubbed across them.

Inside the locket was a downy white feather from the base of Aziraphale's wing, a little puff of down that was small enough to fit in the pendant without bending much. Crowley had pocketed it during one of the _very_ infrequent grooming sessions that he was occasionally able to tempt Aziraphale into, and the next day he'd gone out to buy a locket to keep it with him.

It wasn't characteristic of angels to make someone _less_ anxious by the presence of their energy, but the little sprig of Aziraphale's essence that Crowley kept near his heart had the right kind of holy power (i.e. Aziraphale's.) to make him significantly calmer just by rubbing its container in his fingers.

There was probably something in this, but Crowley wasn't willing to read any further into it than he had to. All he was concerned about was making sure Aziraphale didn't learn what the locket really contained. Something told him that he wasn't ready to find out what the angel would say.


	18. Misfit

On the walls of Eden, an angel stood wringing his hands (metaphorically) about what he'd just done. Sand stretched out as far as the eye could see beyond the walls, and out there was where the humans had been sent to die, probably. Giving them a sword was going against God, of course, but he'd grown fond of the humans.

Behind him, red and black scales slid against the stones of the wall, the serpent the sword was meant to foil making his appearance at last.

God knew, of course. She knew the angel had given away his sword, and She wasn't angry. From above, and from all around, She watched them with her essence as they mingled on the walltop, feathers brushing together. The sword, the meeting, the friendship, all was a part of Her plan.

Long after they finished speaking, the angel and the demon still lingered in the rain, the angel's hair sopping wet but the demon dry under a shining white wing. Only one of the two was fastidious about his hair, and angels naturally dried a lot faster than demons anyway.

"Do you think," said the angel finally, possibly hours after he'd last spoken, "that the other villages I've heard about have 'food'? I heard Sandalphon mention it when I was in Heaven, before, and I'm curious."

The demon grinned out at the rain. "Apples are food, you know."

"Oh- oh."

"But I hear they have _cooked meat_."

"Meat."

"It comes from animals."

"What, like-" The angel gestured out towards the setting sun, in the direction of which a lion laid dead in the dunes, its mouth seared open by flames flickering across celestial iron.

"Mostly ones that eat plants, I hear." The demon glanced towards the dripping angel. "Haven't the rest of the angels already gone back up? What are you still doing here?"

"Their stations were. Temporary. And I've never met a demon, after you all Fell, and I thought maybe I'd scout out the opposition, as it were."

The demon glanced again at the angel, who was not looking at him, and said, "Are you staying on Earth, then?"

"Yes, but-" The angel cleared his throat. "Well, Eden's already crumbling, and I don't know the human language."

"Oh." There was a moment of silence. "I tempted Eve, I spoke to her, so I know _some_ human speech."

"Are you offering-"

"No. No, not at all. Why would I help an angel?"

"Oh."

There was another moment of silence, this one significantly longer.

"Maybe a few human words wouldn't hurt," said the demon finally. "What good can you do with asking for food?"

The angel smiled down at his sandals, trying to hide it. "A few words. Thank you. That's very... bad of you. How dare you tempt an angel into speaking words he learned from a demon. But I mustn't refuse the sharing of knowledge, as it were. Seeing as you've already tempted them into the apple. I shouldn't like you to have so much of a head start."


	19. Sling

A stone thudded into the ground, sending up a spray of soil, and Aziraphale snapped his fingers, annoyed, at it. It shot out of the earth again and into his outstretched hand. The tree he'd drawn a charcoal target on stood unbothered at the other side of the small clearing.

A simple strap of leather that made projectiles go quickly shouldn't be so difficult to use, mused Aziraphale as he fixed its position on his hand and dropped the stone into the worn loop of leather.

"How's it going?"

Aziraphale started. The loose end of the sling slipped from his hand, and the stone thumped onto the ground. "Oh, look what you've done."

"My pleasure," said Crowley, and came over to pick up the stone and hand it back to Aziraphale. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to work out a sling, of course. I should ask you the same thing."

"Not trying to work out how to use a sling. I learned how _ages_ ago."

"And how do you aim it?"

Crowley paused, his mouth slightly open. "Well, I wouldn't tell you, would I?" he said finally.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. "Do you know? Really?"

"I don't know how humans do it, but I just _believe_ it'll go in the right direction."

"Hmm."

"And it usually does."

"I am absolutely certain humans do it a different way."

"You aren't one, angel, you can do it the easy way."

Aziraphale sniffed and dropped the stone back into the sling. "I wouldn't dream of it."

His next stone hit the target directly in its center.


	20. Tread

Wensley's feet pumped bike pedals in the air, and he scrunched up his nose as he peered through his thick glasses at the upside-down TV. "The man on the weather this morning said that it would stop raining around noon tomorrow, so I expect we can go out and catch worms _then_."

Brian, whose head was on Wensley's stomach, was engaged in a riveting kick-fight with Pepper but managed to divert enough of his attention to say, "I want to go fishing in the _rain_, Wensley, and we can't do that if it stops raining."

Over Wensley's feet appeared Adam with a cup of water, heading back to where he'd been sitting against the other arm of the couch.

"Adam, it's cold out, and Brian wants to go fishing in the rain," Wensley said.

"Move, Pepper." The kick-fight stopped for a moment so that Adam could get in where Pepper's head was. "I think it's warm enough if you put on a coat."

"But do you want to?" asked Wensley.

"No," said Pepper vehemently. "Say no, Adam." The kick-fight resumed with extra vigor, and she grabbed Adam's knee to make sure she didn't fall off the couch.

"We can go fishing tomorrow when it's finished raining."

"Adam," said Brian, "_mud._"

The Them gave this a moment of consideration.

"If we go to yours," said Adam finally, "we can play in the stream and go in through the back door. I don't want to fish, though. My gloves'll get soaked in the rain."

"Your mum told me to stop trekking in mud," Pepper told Adam.

"Brian's hasn't yet. We can clean it off there." Adam handed the water across the combatants to Wensley, who struggled to sit up enough that he could drink it.

"Thanks."

"But you have mud outside your front door," protested Pepper. "Your mum didn't tell _you_ to stop trekking in mud, Adam."

"Actually, she did," said Wensley. "It was this morning, before you came. Adam had to clean all of it up."

"Yeah." Adam made a face. "She made me _mop_."

"Ugh."

There was a moment of silence for the mopping Adam was forced to endure, during which somebody on the TV screamed and ran up some echoey stairs.

"Anyway, I think your mum should look at the mud outside before she scolds me about it," said Pepper. "I didn't do anything she wouldn't have."

"Worn shoes inside," offered Adam. "She takes off muddy boots if she has to be outside in the rain."

_"Ugh,"_ said Pepper again.

"Yeah."


	21. Treasure

Adam had a map. He'd drawn it himself, in colored pencil, on a large sheet of paper, and it was a reasonably accurate depiction of Tadfield. There were things drawn all over the map that weren't actually in the town, like monsters, different monsters, and even a dragon labeled 'HERE BE DRAGONS' in shaky seven-year-old handwriting, and at the bottom there was a rhyming clue in the margin: 'Go were we catch frogs and look under the hollow log.'

Pepper, Brian, and Wensley thought the map was Adam's best invention to date. They'd had a whole scavenger hunt based off of the clue at the bottom where they followed Adam's clues around and ended up back at his house with ice cream. They'd pretended they were tourists and squinted at the map until they couldn't figure out what was fun about it anymore. They'd fought the dragon (but lost) and fought some of the monsters (and won).

And now there was a new addition to the wrinkled and folded map: an X in the field near the orchard.

"Are you sure there's treasure there?" asked Brian, wrinkling his forehead like the map.

"Course, there's an X, isn't there?" said Adam. "Pirates put the X there. X marks the spot."

"Pirates put the X on your map?" asked Wensley.

"They snuck in while I was asleep," said Adam.

"Is it gold?" asked Pepper, who was interested in smelting at the moment but wasn't allowed to do it.

"I dunno, probably."

So they set out, armed with Adam's trowel, and fought off competing pirates on their way to the field.

Once they arrived at the field, there was a giant battle between pirates, aliens, and the Them, which, against all odds and using a bit of magic, the Them won. Panting and covered in the grime of battle, they traipsed to the place where something had obviously been buried recently and dug up a little box.

"This is the treasure of Redbeard," said Adam in a pirate voice.

"Are you a pirate?" asked Pepper suspiciously, raising her invisible sword.

"No, he's Adam!" cried Brian, and fell to blows with her.

"Crew, we've been pirates the whole time." Adam sheathed his invisible sword and picked up the box. Pepper and Brian got up from the grass.

"I think it's gold," said Wensley, who was eager to be on Pepper's team rather than being fought.

It wasn't gold, but it was something even more exciting: an interesting pine cone and some dirty quartz rocks.

"Cool," decided the Them, and fled laughing from R. P. Tyler, who'd finally noticed them near his orchard.


	22. Ghost

"I think," said Aziraphale one afternoon when they were taking tea in his back room, "that my shop is haunted."

"Is it?" asked Crowley, one eyebrow drifting high like he'd tied helium balloons to it. "I'd think you'd have noticed by now."

Aziraphale sniffed and took a sip of his tea, which was hibiscus and _very_ nice. "Ghosts can move in just like anybody else, dear."

"Hgk," said Crowley. "Why do you say it's here _now_?" It was news to him that Aziraphale believed in ghosts. They'd been friends, or at least tolerated each other, for thousands of years, and only now was Aziraphale mentioning a ghost like it was a real thing.

"_Well,_" said Aziraphale, cradling his cup in his hands, "Unless I'm mistaken, books don't alphabetize themselves, and my section signs are illegible and inaccurate."

"Something's changed?" The helium balloons pulled Crowley's eyebrow higher.

"The fiction's alphabetized itself, and I have new signs." Aziraphale shot a withering look at Crowley. "Don't look at me like that, Crowley."

"I didn't think you believed in ghosts." Crowley suppressed a smile and sipped his tea.

"Irrefutable proof, dear."

It wasn't irrefutable, but that certainly wasn't worth arguing about. "Have you _seen_ it?"

Aziraphale hesitated. "Well, no. I thought that was rather the point of ghosts, though, isn't it?"

"So it could be a person, couldn't it?"

"Are you-" Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. "Are you reorganizing my shelves?"

Crowley tried to hide his grin in his tea. "No."

"Are you _alphabetizing_ my books, Crowley?"

"No! I'd organize them by Dewey, or something else you wouldn't get." It was too soon for Crowley to give up the game, it really was, but Aziraphale had noticed too soon.

"Really, dear. You know that makes it easier for people to buy books."

Crowley sighed and snapped his fingers, and a great number of dustcovers put themselves back on the right books.

"Thank you."


	23. Ancient

Not far from the quarry where the Them had their base was a small hill into which an ancient oak spread its roots. Its trunk took three of them to reach around it, and whether this was because of their wingspan or the size of the tree was still up for debate.

A long time ago, Adam had started a rumor that the tree was haunted, and he half-believed it still.

One thing the tree was not good for was climbing. It had too much underbrush around it, and there weren't any branches anywhere close to the ground. So when the Them went to hang out with the possible ghost and the definite tree, they sat on the ground in the bushes.

"I think," said Wensley one warm summer's day, "that this hill might be a burial mound."

"What?" Adam picked up his head from the roots to look at Wensley, whose eyes were closed and whose hands were folded neatly on his chest. "I never heard of any burial mounds in Tadfield."

"It probably has a bunch of warriors under it. I expect we would have heard of a king."

Pepper rolled her eyes and groped on the ground next to her for sticks, which she crossed across her chest. "I'm the ghost of the king buried under the grey tree." She made a few ghost noises before snorting with laughter.

Wensley opened one eye and looked at her. "The sticks are pharaohs, Pepper. Pharaohs have those."

Adam put his head back down and looked up at the tree. "I thought they didn't plant anything on the mounds."

"It could have grown. They didn't have to plant it."

"What about fairies?" asked Brian sleepily, not opening his eyes.

"Yeah, fairies, Wensley." Pepper lazily flicked one of her sticks like a wand.

Wensley sighed a long-suffering sigh. "It _couldn't_ be a fairy mound, because fairies aren't real."

"I read a book on Tadsfield history, and it didn't say _anything_ about a battle or a burial mound," said Adam.

"It's a guess," said Wensley, already fed up with the line of questioning. "I don't know. Maybe it's just a hill."


End file.
